


you've got scars, too (and they look a lot like mine)

by dippindots



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, POV Second Person, Rose is only mentioned, ahahaaaa I love shared trauma, anyway I lose my mind over this ship so enjoy, listen. listen, sometimes two identical gay space rocks can be so personal, sorry abt the pov guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28276155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dippindots/pseuds/dippindots
Summary: “Volley,” she finally says, her voice a little rougher than it was before. There’s about twenty different emotions laced into the way she says your name, and you’re scared to think about what any of them might mean. She also sounds like she’s about to protest. You’re not having any of that.“Pearl.”She stops.“I know you’re trying to protect me from a lot of things. I don’t mind. But maybe this is something where I don’t want your protection.”or;almost 5k words of these two gay rocks holding each other while they try to figure each other out; angst with a side of fluff. also they kiss a little <3
Relationships: Pearl/Pink Diamond's Original Pearl | Volleyball, Pearl/Pink Diamond's Pearl (Steven Universe)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 35





	you've got scars, too (and they look a lot like mine)

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys I really just wake up everyday and bounce from one silly little hyperfixation to another huh
> 
> got into SU recently thanks to my friends and immediately got attached to it and um. blacked out and wrote this I guess. it was rlly self-indulgent for me bc I am obsessed w Pearl and this ship as a whole but figured it was good enough to post so here u guys go
> 
> anyway I'm on tumblr @luzmitys u can talk to me I don't bite I jusd never shut up

You’re holding her hand.

Well, you’re always holding her hand. You like to think you’re good at it. After all, it’s not like anyone else here has hands that are completely identical to hers. Sometimes you untangle your fingers simply to press your palm flat against hers, to marvel at the way each finger lines up and ends in exactly the same place. She watches you carefully whenever you do this, always with a hint of amusement behind her eyes. You never feel the need to explain yourself. You know she understands. She always does.

Right now, however, you’re not comparing anything. Right now, your fingers are intertwined together as you rest your head on her shoulder. The puffy fabric of her jacket tickles your cheek. You’re dimly aware of her other hand waving animatedly in the air as she rambles excitedly about some complicated subject that’s gone completely over your head. It doesn’t matter to you that you don’t know what she’s talking about. You’re pretty sure you could listen to her talk for hours. Days, even.

She seems so caught up in whatever world she’s constructed for herself that you wouldn’t be surprised if she had forgotten you were there entirely, with the full length of your body pressed up against her side as if you were magnets. Yet the gentle thumb rubbing little circles into the back of your hand tells you otherwise. Her touch is featherlight; it makes you feel warm. You can’t help but return the gesture, gently stroking with your own thumb, but the movement is slow and a little erratic. You’re falling asleep, you think. It’s hard to tell when you’re this relaxed.

“. . . honestly, though, who would even want to  _ use _ that sort of outdated nonsense in this situation? We stopped measuring things with that method five thousand years ago!”

A pause, then something that resembled a low chuckle.

“Oh, I did it again, didn’t I? . . . Sorry.”

“Did what?” you mumble, opening your eye and rubbing at it with your free hand. You stretch your legs out as far as they can go, then draw them back in and snuggle closer into her.

She looks down at you, and you look up at her, and she smiles and sighs and untangles her hand from yours to wrap her arm around your shoulders. Immediately, her other hand comes up to fill the space she left between your fingers, and you grab at it with both hands and pull it close to your chest.

She’s quiet for a moment longer. Then, “I suppose it’s nice to have someone to listen. I just don’t want to bore you so much that I make you fall asleep. We don’t even  _ need _ sleep, so that must mean that I’m  _really_ —”

“You’re not boring,” you mumble again. Your eye slips closed on its own. “You’re never boring. Your voice is nice.”

If you had still been looking at her, you would’ve been able to see the pretty teal blush dusting her cheeks at the compliment. You would’ve thought it was more than just pretty. You would’ve seen the softness in her eyes, unguarded, content, caring. Loving. Always loving, when it was just the two of you, but you didn’t want to misinterpret it. You try not to think too much about these things, even if sometimes your feelings get a little too hard to ignore.

“Your voice is nice, too,” she replies, and her voice has dipped a little lower, a little quieter. She’s not in her own world anymore. She’s here, with you, on the couch in the temple, and that dip in her voice almost makes it sound like she’s reverent at that fact. Wishful thinking, maybe.

“Why, thank you.” You yawn. Your fingers play with her hand, brushing over her knuckles, tangling and untangling. You make some sleepy murmur of contentment and she chuckles again; the noise makes your chest ache ( _ignore it_ ) and you want to hear it again and again.

“I don’t know how you can get this relaxed. I’ve only managed to fall asleep a handful of times since I was created,” she admits, a twinge of . . . something, laced in her voice. The hand around your shoulder has moved to play with your hair, and you shiver every time her fingertips brush the nape of your neck. She doesn’t seem to notice. “It was . . . a nice break. From everything. But I can’t really seem to do it whenever I want.”

Wistfulness, a hint of jealousy. That’s the something in her voice. You wish you could transfer the warmth in your body to hers, to allow her to fall asleep with you. That wouldn’t be so difficult, would it? She already  _ seems _ like she’s relaxed.

“What was it like for you the first time?” Your voice is still a little slurred. You hope you don’t sound stupid. Of course, you have no idea of knowing how fond she is of the fact that she can cause you to let down your guard like this. You have no idea that she loves everything about this moment.

“It . . . was because of Rose. I fell asleep in her arms. It was a little embarrassing, to be honest with you.”

The mention of your former diamond makes your eye blink open and you tense automatically, outside of your control. This time, she notices. Her hand jerks out of your hair.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned her; I always do this and everyone keeps telling me that I need to stop bringing her up, but--”

“It’s okay,” you interrupt, your voice a little more alert now. You shift to look back up at her, and you make sure to hold her gaze as you gently grab her hand and move it back to the back of your head. Her pale blue eyes are comically wide and apologetic in that trademark way of hers; you want to make her relaxed again immediately. “Really. I’m fine.”

You break eye contact and hesitate. You don’t want to dive too deep into this subject, not today at least (because there’s plenty of time for you two to talk about how similar you are and what you both went through but sometimes you just want to push all that out of your head so that there isn’t so much  _ noise _ in there all the time), but you also desperately want to reassure her. Get her away from being so on edge, from being so cautious around you.

“I don’t think she’s ever going to be anything but a sore subject,” you begin, and you settle into her side once more so that you’re looking straight ahead instead of up at her (that would be a little too much, you think). “And I can tell she caused some pain in all of you.”

The other gem scoffs next to you, nothing more than a minute huff that you can feel on the top of your head. You both know your words are an understatement.

“But . . . I don’t think treating her like she didn’t exist is going to help any of us.” You pause, draw your legs in a bit closer. “At least, it’s not helping me.”

Her hand stills for a fraction of a second from its place in your hair, but then it picks back up again. She’s waiting for you to continue.

“You’re the only one here who has any idea what I went through. You’re the only one here who I—” You cut yourself off, exhaling. “Who I can talk to,” you finish, your voice lowered to almost a whisper. It wasn’t quite what you had wanted to say. “So I don’t want you treating her like I’m going to break into a million pieces just by you saying her name.”

“Volley,” she finally says, her voice a little rougher than it was before. There’s about twenty different emotions laced into the way she says your name, and you’re scared to think about what any of them might mean. She also sounds like she’s about to protest. You’re not having any of that.

“Pearl.”

She stops.

“I know you’re trying to protect me from a lot of things. I don’t mind. But maybe this is something where I don’t want your protection.”

It had been months since you two had fused, but those moments together had been so  _ intimate _ that you’re not sure if they’ll ever leave your head. You could feel all of her emotions, and she could feel all of yours, and some of her feelings were so achingly familiar that you had to use all your willpower to not just drop to your knees. You know she had felt the same.

But there were also facets of her that were so, so different. Her thoughts and memories showed you a different Pink Diamond, a version of her that almost completely contradicted the one that had damaged you beyond repair. This was _Rose Quartz_ , the gem that had gone on to lead a revolution against her own colony, the colony she had wanted to have so badly. She was bold, and enchanting, and endlessly curious in the lifeforms of the planet she had taken over, and she fought passionately. And as for Pearl? Both of you may have suffered when you served the diamond, but you hadn’t expected such a . . . different kind of suffering.

The fusion had allowed you not only to see Pearl’s memories of Homeworld, but those of the war. You saw the way she threw all of herself into battle, almost carelessly, and yet with such precision that anyone with half a gem could see that she wasn’t fighting without a purpose. But her purpose—her purpose led to her being killed, over and over again, and each time she would come back with a little more ferocity, a little more desperation to prove herself and fight and _protect_. And she—she hadn’t been built for  _ any  _ of that. It sickened you.

What might have been even worse than that, though, was seeing that that protective fire was still flickering. You felt protectiveness running through you that day as you fought your way through the Reef, the fusion making your form practically hum with energy, and all you both wanted was to get Steven to safety. But that was a different kind of protectiveness: it wasn’t overpowering; it didn’t make you feel like you’d throw away all common sense (or self-worth) just to help Steven. It wasn’t like Pearl with _Rose_ , because Pearl thought she had grown. She thought she had put that fire out.

You could still feel it in her, though, through the fusion. It would have burned you if you tried to focus on it too much. A tiny flame that was a little too hot to the touch, nothing like the fire that you had seen raging in her during the war. But you knew it had the potential to grow. Perhaps the worst part of it all was that you could tell the flicker had only recently begun again, fueled by a startling ferocity to shield someone from all that she herself had experienced—and that someone was _you_.

You’d felt horrified by that. You still do, but you hadn’t let it show after you unfused or any time since then. You had held her hand that night on the beach and rested your head on her shoulder, and when your grip on her hand had tightened you had been trying to tell her  _ I need you to stop destroying yourself for others; please don’t destroy yourself for me. _ You should’ve known that would be too complicated to get across, because the returning squeeze you received seemed to mean that she had only heard the first three words.

And although you haven’t fused with her since that day, you know there’s some part of her that’s desperately trying to take away your pain, to transfer it to herself so she can hold it all for you. You know there’s a part of her that’s tearing itself apart over not being able to reverse the damage you’d been dealt. You feel it in the way she talks to you, voice gentle and collected as if any other tone might break you. You feel it in the way she holds you, hours spent curled in her room among the waterfalls while the rest of the city sleeps, with her arms wrapped around you and your head pressed to her chest. (She breathes for you when you’re like this, just so you can feel the slow rise and fall of her chest as a rhythm to comfort you, trying to convince you that there’s no safer place in the world to be. In this, you can’t help but indulge yourself and believe her.) You even feel it in the way she carries herself around you, poised and confident, deflecting whenever you ask how she’s feeling. You know better. You know she doesn’t want you carrying her pain on your conscience, which is ironic given that you’ve already seen her very identity exposed to you in its entirety.

You want to let it be, but—

_ “How did you stop hurting?” _

_ “I didn’t.” _

You want to let it be, but you can’t.

With that conversation echoing in your mind, your thoughts rush back to the present. You’re not sure how long you’ve been silent for, and you’re not sure if she’s said anything since you went quiet. Regardless, the words tumble out of your mouth: “Maybe I just want to be able to feel hurt with you.”

“But— _Volley—_ ”

“Don’t try to argue. Please. I’m not the only one here who needs helping.”

She’s silent for a few long moments; long enough that you wonder if she’s going to say anything at all. But then you feel weight on top of your head as she rests her cheek there, and when she speaks, you can feel the vibration from her voice. “You’re so much better at this than I could ever be.” 

“Not true. We both went through a lot, didn’t we?” And now there’s a hint of a smile on your face, but it’s bitter.

She sighs, heavy, and her free arm curls around you. “Yes, we did.” Her voice sounds distant. “I just—it hurts to see someone else—someone like _me_ , feeling what I’m feeling, and I can’t do anything about it—I wish I could just get  _ rid _ of that for you—”

“I know.” You squeeze her hand; maybe she’ll get the message this time. “But you can help people without forgetting about yourself. You know that, right?”

“. . . Yes. I do.”

“You should remind yourself of that once in a while, then. Or I’ll remind you. We’ll figure it out.” You smile again, but now it’s genuine. You shift back into her a little more. “Don’t make me remind you too often, or else.”

She laughs. It sounds wet.

“Are you . . . crying?”

Before she can form any sort of reply, you turn to face her, just to confirm your suspicions. There’s about a second where you’re able to process the answer to your question—she’s not quite crying, but there  _ are _ tears brimming in her eyes—before your mind seems to short circuit a bit because _oh_ , your faces are . . . _close._ Your noses brush and it feels like you’ve been shocked; luckily (or _unluckily_ ) her arm around your shoulder keeps you from shooting away. Her eyes widen the tiniest amount.

“I—” She blinks. “Yes, I’m—I’m sorry.”

You want to say it’s fine, you don’t mind, you never mind because you think it’s sweet whenever she gets emotional, and also has anyone told her how pretty she is up close, but your mouth seems a little incapable of functioning at the moment. Her arm shows no indication of letting you go. You swallow uselessly. Then, she does what she usually does when she gets nervous: she starts rambling.

“I—I don’t know why I get so  _ emotional _ all the time, I really don’t mean it, but—you’re just so very sweet and kind and I guess it gets to me—it’s really very embarrassing, I need to work on it—anyway, I’m not really _crying_ , just teary-eyed, it’s not that big a deal—”

You’re barely able to catch any of what she’s saying, much less process it with her this close to you, and it might be your imagination but her arm feels like it’s drawing you even  _ closer _ and you feel like you’ll lose your mind if you sit here and do nothing for much longer. You’d interrupt her and tell her that _really_ , it’s _okay_ , but you’ve already discovered that you can’t speak, so naturally you do the next reasonable thing and you—you surge forward and kiss her.

It works, of course—she immediately stops talking. Your mind is in a complete fog; all you can think about is how warm her mouth is and how foolish you are for not trying this months ago. It doesn’t last, though, as the feeling of her body going rigid is enough to get your mind to catch up with your actions, and you pull back abruptly. 

She’s staring at you with what almost seems to be a blank expression—almost. Her mouth hangs open a fractional amount, and it takes a bit of an effort to look away from it and into her eyes instead. Her eyes, which are wide and full of disbelief. Her eyes, which are regarding you with something that almost seems like . . . wonder. 

“Oh,” she whispers, more of an exhale than a word.

You match her exhale, but yours is one of notable distress. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—that was  _ stupid _ of me, such a bad time to— _why_ did I think that would be a good idea—please don’t—”

You’re cut off by her hand disentangling from yours and reaching up to cup your face. Your eye widens, and the breath that you don’t need hitches. She’s still gazing at you with an expression so potent that you don’t know what to make of it. She opens her mouth wider to say something but pauses, and the briefest hint of old pain flashes behind her eyes before she speaks.

“You’re wonderful,” she breathes, and then her lips are on yours and you stop trying to think.

She kisses you carefully at first, with restraint, like your entire being is made of glass. Her mouth is soft against yours, hesitant and slow. You can feel her already pulling away at your unresponsiveness before you decide to have half a mind and actually kiss her back; your hands grasp at her shoulders before trailing down to grab at the collar of her jacket and tugging. She takes the hint and presses closer to you. The arm around your shoulders moves and suddenly her hand is buried in your hair and she’s kissing you a little harder, a little more fervently. Her other hand shifts from its place on your cheek and her fingers brush across your jaw in a way that makes you shiver. Your arms come up to wrap around her shoulders and press her closer into you, and her weight forces you to lean back so that you’re sinking into the couch with her above you. 

Your legs tangle together as you arch up into her, opening your mouth against hers and feeling a little lightheaded when she does the same. Everything abruptly feels too warm all at once. Apparently she doesn’t think you’re made of glass anymore, if the way her mouth is moving against yours is any indication. Your hands fist in the back of her jacket, clutching at the material like it’s a lifeline. The hand holding your face trails down to skim along your side; you barely manage to suppress another shiver. She breaks away without warning and you almost start to protest before her lips press against the spot directly behind your jaw, and  _ that _ causes an entirely different noise to rise from the back of your throat instead. 

She actually pulls away at that, and your eye blinks open to find her hovering above you with concern painted across her features. Her face is entirely flushed with teal. “I’m sorry, was that—was that too much?”

Her eyes look unfocused and you can tell she’s struggling to catch her (unneeded) breath. You’ve never heard her voice sound so uncontrolled. Her hair is sticking up at odd angles; her jacket is crooked on her shoulders. Her brows are scrunched together with worry. All you can think about is how beautiful she looks before you remember that you have to answer her.

“No, that was . . .” You trail off, not quite sure how to phrase how you’re feeling because your mind still feels like it’s in a haze. 

Her brows pull closer together, seemingly misinterpreting your lack of words as uncertainty. She looks like she’s about to say something, but a sudden giggle bubbles its way out of you before you can stop it. That makes her expression turn to one of confusion, and she tilts her head the slightest amount, which only makes you giggle even more.

“Sorry,” you say when you’ve collected yourself, a shy smile on your face. “It’s just—you’re cute when you’re worried.”

“Oh,” she says flatly, frowning. Her fingers twitch from where they’re still tangled in your hair, which sends yet another shiver down your spine, despite yourself. She huffs. “I don’t  _ try  _ to be cute.”

“I know,” you reply with a grin. “You still are.”

The teal on her face grows more vivid and she’s trying to look annoyed, but you can see the amusement behind her eyes clear as day. That fluttering in your chest kicks back up again at the sight of her, looking like this because of _you_. Your hands slide up to loop around her neck and you pull her down for another kiss, sweet and slow and full of warmth. She melts back against you instantly.

Eventually, you pull away. Your fingers start to comb through her hair and you gently tuck her head against your chest. She doesn’t resist, moving both arms to wrap around your middle. You’re both quiet for a long while. Her hair is much softer than you’d expected; you’ve never been quite able to do this, as normally  _ she’s _ the one holding you. This is new. You feel a little giddy.

“Volley?” Her voice sends vibrations through your chest. You make a noise for her to continue. She sighs, and you can practically hear the frown on her face even though you can’t see it. “Are you sure you want . . . I mean, with _me_ —”

“Yes,” you interrupt, voice firm.

She goes silent. Then: “Are you sure you can handle—”

“ _Yes,_ Pearl. I want this.”

No reply.

“Look at me,” you continue, and the hand in her hair shifts down to cup her chin and gently tilt her face towards you. You can see yourself reflected in her blue, blue eyes, and they’re so cautious and concerned and afraid and hesitant that your whole being just _aches_. It takes all your willpower to not just kiss her again as a way to prove this to her. She’s always been one for words rather than actions.

“Look at me,” you say again. You tug away one of her arms from being wrapped around you and then raise her hand to the side of your face, the one that’s been destroyed beyond repair. Your fingers lay atop hers and you guide them to skim across the cracks where your other eye should be. Her breath catches in her throat and her eyes widen, but you can’t feel anything. “We  _ both _ have a lot to deal with,” you press on. “Do you think I’d still be attached to your side all the time if I thought I couldn’t handle you?” 

You let out a small laugh at that, at the  _ thought _ of you actually thinking she was too much. A weak smile grows on her face, but her eyes still look unconvinced. Her fingers start to trace the fissures.

“I meant it earlier when I said I wanted to feel hurt with you. We’re both pearls; we’re both damaged. You’ve been taking care of me like no one else has. I . . .” You pause, swiping your thumb over her knuckles. “Why would I turn you away?”

She looks a little overwhelmed, and her eyes have filled with tears. You move your hand to brush away one that’s escaped. She still doesn’t reply, but it doesn’t look like she can form words easily at the moment.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice the softest it’s been so far. “Let me take care of you, too.”

That gets her. She sniffs and drops her face to your chest, eyes squeezed shut and arms wrapping tight around you again. You loop yours around her shoulders and pull her close.

“Okay,” she whispers back, voice cracking and wobbly.

You press a kiss to the top of her head and rub small circles in between her shoulder blades as she slowly starts to let herself relax against you. You know she’s trying her hardest to hide her tears from you, but the slight tremble of her form gives her away. You make no comment on it; you just hum softly and hold her close and run your fingers through her hair in a way that you can only hope is soothing.

It must work; her shaking fades away at some point and leaves nothing but a warm silence between the two of you. She’s still breathing, as are you. You suppose you both take comfort in it. Your hand is still stroking gently through her hair, and you marvel at how nice it feels. She hasn’t moved or made any noise in a while; you’re a little surprised at how long she’s been able to stay relaxed.

“You’re too sweet,” she mumbles at length, seemingly unprompted.

“What did I do?” you giggle softly.

“Nothing. Everything.” Her voice sounds suspiciously sluggish.

“Everything is a lot for me to do at once, I think.”

She makes some dismissive noise as if to convince you to stop kidding yourself, of course you did everything, didn’t you realize? She buries her face deeper into the crook of your neck and makes another comment, but it’s muffled. Something about being lucky.

“If you’re saying that I’m the lucky one here, then I agree,” you tease. She does nothing but shake her head. 

You decide to let it be, since she doesn’t seem to be in the mood for your regular banter. You rest your head fully back against the welcoming cushion of the couch and close your eye, the hand in her hair getting slower by the minute. You don’t know how long you stay like that before you realize you should probably ask her how long she plans on staying here; you don’t want to fall asleep and leave her behind to deal with waking you up (it’s just so  _ easy _ to fall asleep with her here, with the full length of her warmth pressed against you).

“Pearl,” you whisper.

You get no answer.

“Pearl.”

Silence.

Your eye opens and you lift your head up to look at her. It’s then that you realize that her arms have loosened quite a bit from their tight hold around you. Her breathing, warm against your neck, has evened out, slow and steady. Your hand in her hair stops moving completely. No reaction.

You feel a giddy smile spreading across your face before you can stop it. She’s fallen asleep.

“Only happened a handful of times, hm?” you murmur to no one in particular, voice just the tiniest bit smug. You drop your head back down and sigh contentedly, your eye slipping closed once more.

“Rest well, then,” you whisper, and you let her guide you into a dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Volley: hey can we make out  
> Pearl: okay but only if I can cry after


End file.
